Jianlan went to bed.
Jianlan woke up in bed.
Jianlan also woke up with horrible bedhead.
The kind that defied gravity, reason, and basic human decency. His hair stood in directions that suggested it had lived a full life while he was asleep. He shuffled to the mirror, squinting blearily at his reflection.
It stared back.
He stared longer.
Then he looked away, grimacing.
Behind him, in the mirror, his reflection stuck its tongue out at him.
Jianlan froze for a second, feeling that something was wrong with the universe.
He looked back.
Normal. Perfectly normal. Same stupid hair. Same tired eyes. No tongue. No rebellion.
He sighed. Deeply. "I'm too tired for this."
He leaned closer to the mirror, assessing the damage. Should he get a haircut? But those were expensive. Criminally expensive. He could try cutting it himself, but then he'd look like a rat that had lost a fight with a lawnmower. He could also just… let it grow out.
Hmm.
He imagined it longer. Shaggier. Intentional chaos. Cool. Effortless. Like he definitely listened to underground bands and not whatever Spotify threw at him.
Punk rock band vibes.
He straightened.
Should he join a band?
The thought landed, settled, and immediately made itself comfortable in his brain.
That actually seemed like a great idea.
Yes.
Absolutely yes.
Nothing bad had ever come from spontaneous life decisions made in front of a bathroom mirror.
That was also a big fat lie.
He had, in fact, tried to grow out his hair once.
When he was younger. Middle school, maybe? The years blurred together, but the vibes were unmistakable. Massive chuunibyo phase. Delusions of grandeur. Main character syndrome cranked to eleven. He'd been convinced long hair would complete the image.
It did not.
At some point, possessed by hubris and a hair tutorial he had absolutely misinterpreted, he tried to curl his hair by wrapping a comb into it.
It didn't curl.
It stuck.
Fully. Firmly. Against the side of his head.
Panic set in immediately.
He'd called his sister, voice cracking, insisting this was the end for him. They'd sat on the bathroom floor for half an hour, locked in battle with the comb like it was an ancient curse. Hair conditioner. Failed. Vegetable oil. Also failed, and only succeeded in making him smell like a salad.
Eventually, they gave up.
He cut that section off.
But refused to even out the other side.
Principles.
So he'd walked around for weeks with half his head cut short and the other half long, convinced he looked cool. Avant-garde. Revolutionary.
He did not.
Looking back at the pictures now, Jianlan felt a deep, visceral urge to travel back in time and beat his younger self with a chair.
He stared at his reflection again.
"…Maybe," he muttered carefully, "I should not join a band."
"…But maybe," Jianlan said to the mirror, pointing at himself for emphasis, "I should."
Because if he did, then he might, y'know, meet a nice girl. Or at least someone normal. He might be cool. He might make more friends. He might finally have a personality trait that wasn't has bad luck but survives it.
Who knew?
Hmm.
Yes.
He'd join a band.
The decision felt solid. Bold. Questionable, but solid.
Step one: learn an instrument.
Problem.
He did not own an instrument.
The guitar belonged to Jasper. Borrowing it would involve conversations, eye contact, and possibly being mocked. Lessons were out of the question. He was not made of money, and YouTube tutorials, while powerful, were famously temporary sources of confidence.
Still.
Maybe he was secretly a genius.
A prodigy.
A once-in-a-generation talent waiting to be discovered by a cracked mirror and sheer willpower.
He pictured himself on stage. Lights. Applause. Hair doing that cool thing it never did in real life. Backflips! Cartwheels! (He'd tried once, and had immediately pulled a muscle in his thigh. he hadn't been able to walk for a few days)! CROWDSURFING!
…
Nah.
Who was he kidding.
He'd suck at music.
Badly.
Catastrophically.
But whatever.
He still really, really needed money.
Maybe it was time to get a job.
The thought sat there, heavy and unavoidable, like a notification you refuse to open.
But did he even have good points for hiring?
He sucked at making drinks. Like, actively dangerous levels of suck. Sweeping floors? Also no. He somehow managed to make a bigger mess while cleaning. He only cleaned when he was stressed, which meant his apartment sparkled exclusively during emotional crises.
Maybe having a job would keep him stressed 24/7.
A self-sustaining ecosystem.
Still, he needed a backup plan.
Nothing biology-related. No degree yet, and even if there was one, it would probably involve lab coats and disappointment. Nothing fancy. Again, degree-shaped hole in his life. No gambling. No prostitution. He wasn't that desperate, and also paperwork sounded annoying.
What else was there?
He looked toward the kitchen.
The sink. The counter. The lingering scent of egg custard victory.
Hmm.
Cooking.
He could cook.
Not professionally, not consistently, but… he hadn't poisoned anyone yet. That counted for something. He followed recipes decently. He improvised when necessary. He cooked when sad, when bored, when trying to feel like a functional human being.
Chef.
The word felt too big, like a jacket several sizes up. But maybe not chef chef. Maybe line cook. Kitchen help. Guy who chops things and pretends he knows what he's doing.
He pictured it. Heat. Noise. Orders shouted like battle cries. Stress, but the productive kind. The kind where your hands were busy enough that your brain couldn't spiral.
Also.
Money.
Real, honest, non-mirror-haunted money.
Jianlan nodded slowly to himself, as if sealing a pact with the fridge.
"…Yeah," he said. "Cooking."
Maybe he could find a job online.
The idea sparked, bright and reckless. He lunged for his laptop with both hands, enthusiasm first, self-preservation second. His new laptop. The replacement one. Purchased lovingly by his parents after he had murdered the old one with a spilled drink.
Oops.
He definitely could not ask them for money. He was an adult now. Allegedly. Adults were supposed to suffer quietly and figure things out with spreadsheets and regret.
Also, he was too afraid to talk to his mother.
His mother was a terrifying woman.
When she had found out he'd switched his emergency contact to Da'Ge, she had gone on a full-scale warpath. Not a metaphorical one. A real one. His ears were still ringing, and that had been days ago. She made Ms. Weasley's howlers look like politely worded emails.
No. Absolutely not. He valued his continued existence.
His father, on the other hand, had been… proud.
"My son got hit by lightning and survived," he'd told the other dads, chest puffed out like this was a competitive sport. Jianlan was convinced his father had secretly hoped he'd gotten a lightning-shaped scar, just to complete the literary aesthetic. It came with the territory. His dad was an editor, obsessed with fiction of all kinds.
It sounded like a dream job.
For about five seconds.
Then Jianlan imagined himself reading manuscripts instead of editing them, getting emotionally invested, forgetting to correct anything, and submitting feedback like: wow this part made me cry.
Also. His grammar was terrible.
He wilted a little in his chair.
Another thing he was bad at. Great. Fantastic. The list was getting long enough to qualify as a novella.
He stared at the laptop screen as it booted up, its glow reflected faintly in his eyes.
Okay. Online job searching. No parents involved. No lightning. No grammar-based humiliation.
Surely, somewhere on the internet, there was a job that needed a guy who could cook decently, panic efficiently, and survive mild supernatural nonsense.
Surely.
He cracked his knuckles.
"Alright," he muttered to the laptop. "Show me what you've got."
The cursor blinked back at him, patient. Almost smug.
He opened a couple of job websites and immediately felt his soul attempt to leave his body.
Resumes. Fonts. Bullet points. The eternal question of whether "proficient in Microsoft Word" was impressive or just a cry for help.
He tried to make his resume cooler.
Not dishonest. Just… aspirational. He nudged phrases around, inflated verbs like balloons. Cooked dinner became independently prepared nutritionally balanced meals. He stared at it, nodded once, and decided this was morally acceptable.
At least it wasn't like admissions.
God. His essays. Absolute train wrecks. He still woke up some nights remembering them, staring into the dark, whispering apologies to the English language.
He scrolled. More listings. Office jobs he couldn't do. Internships that wanted degrees he did not possess. Positions requiring "excellent communication skills," which felt like a personal attack.
Maybe… maybe he could apply directly to restaurants?
The thought hovered.
Not fast food. Never fast food. That was suffering on a schedule. He had heard the horror stories. Grease burns. Yelling. Customers who thought minimum wage workers were NPCs.
Retail was just as bad. He wanted no part in folding shirts for eight hours only for someone to unfold them out of spite.
But restaurants…
His brain, traitor that it was, immediately supplied the downsides.
What if there was hazing?
What if they made him do all the dishes?
His poor, delicate skin recoiled at the mental image. Pruney fingers. Industrial soap. The slow erosion of his humanity under a mountain of plates.
He held up his hands and examined them. These were not dishwashing hands. These reminded him of someone who belonged near a cutting board, looking busy and important, not elbow-deep in regret.
Still.
Everyone had to start somewhere, right?
He sighed, slumping back in his chair, the laptop humming softly like it was amused by his suffering. Outside, the world continued. Inside, Jianlan waged war with job listings and his own dignity.
"Okay," he muttered. "Maybe one restaurant. Just to look."
He typed. Hovered. Hesitated.
His skin shuddered again, dramatically, as if to say: choose wisely.
This one seemed nice.
A Japanese place. Don. Ramen. Warm, honest food that hugged you from the inside and didn't ask too many questions. He loved eating it. He could cook it pretty well too, which immediately made it suspiciously perfect.
Except noodles.
Pasta. Handmade noodles. His mortal enemy.
Flour and eggs always went rogue, migrating across the counter like they were attempting escape. Everything got sticky, then overworked, then offended. The dough refused to boil properly, collapsing into a sad, soggy failure like it knew it was unloved.
And then there was the TangYuan incident.
He winced.
Frozen dumplings. Water not boiling. A fatal mistake. They had dissolved into the pot, sacrificed themselves to thermodynamics, and produced a grey, haunted slurry. Soup of shame. None of his siblings had ever let him forget it. To this day, someone would still whisper "TangYuan" like a curse.
Focus.
Restaurants.
He shook his head slightly, as if that would dislodge the memory.
A French restaurant popped up next.
Mmm. Nice. Elegant. Also absolutely terrifying. He had heard things. Words like brigade, screaming, and emotional damage. No thank you.
Salad bar?
Immediate no. Cold food judged you silently.
Chinese restaurant?
He paused. Squinted.
Owned by an old white man. None of the cooks were Asian.
He did not trust it. His ancestors whispered danger.
Next.
Oh.
Oh wait.
He knew this place.
Famous pizza joint. Lines out the door. People spoke of it reverently, like it had cured their seasonal depression.
He considered it.
Visualized himself tossing dough. Immediately imagined the dough hitting the ceiling and never coming back down.
"…Nah."
His cursor drifted back. Hovered.
Japanese place it was.
He stared at the listing, heart thumping lightly, like it knew this was important. This felt… right. Familiar. Safe-ish. The kind of place where he could belong without being yelled at in French.
He cracked his knuckles, took a breath, and leaned closer to the screen.
Okay.
Let's do this.